


Evol

by rissalf, SilentSinger



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Glory Hole, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Violence, Voyeurism, dennis is a bastard man, did we mention dennis is a bastard man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: Dennis is, as always, a bastard man.





	1. 9:15 PM on a Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dennis considers a new system.

The D.E.N.N.I.S. System isn’t just an infallible method of banging chicks. It’s a discipline, a way of life – an artfully crafted, revised-to-perfection ethos to live, sleep, eat and die by. Every aspect of existence revolves around self-control, and how a man acts and reacts to the opportunities given to him. Consider, just how many barely legal teens has Dennis stopped himself just short of exploiting? Oh, they gaze at him with awe and adoration – wide-eyed and bursting with boundless, nubile possibility – as he turns on the patented Reynolds charm, but a man has to stand by his system. Without order, chaos would reign supreme and even fat sacks of shit like Mac, or (God forbid) even Frank would be able to reap the rewards that only years of regimented training can effectively afford.

Occasionally, he’d yearn for the days when such meticulous doctrines were no more than seeds waiting to sprout their tendrils. As a child (although Dennis scoffs at the notion of ever being a child; his ideologies and thought processes were always light-years ahead of their time), he’d always delighted in being the catalyst for destruction, and his unsettling urges were easily brushed aside as the cruel curiosity that even the most well-behaved children are capable of. Testing the tensile strength of several crow necks (weak, laughably weak and “really, nature?”) had been nothing more than a simple exercise in cause and effect. At that juncture of his life, everything existed to be experimented on – to be pushed to its limits.

Regardless, this – whatever the fuck _this_ is – should never have gone down. Dennis sneers with disdain at the viscid, semen-soaked tissue in his hand, and the monitor in front of him playing nothing more than static after its eye-opening erotic extravaganza appears to be mocking his preposterous lack of restraint. This should not have happened. It’s unorthodox, uncouth, and about as far removed from Dennis’ code of conduct as possible.

****

It had all started with one of the most nonsensical schemes Charlie had ever concocted. At approximately 12:15 last Thursday night, he’d burst from the basement with all the bluster of a man amped up on a cuntload of amphetamine with his ass on fire. Dennis was alone at the bar on this occasion, conducting scrupulous research with regards to that redheaded piece of tail who’d started working at the Wawa – whose wallet he’d pocketed earlier with the intent of getting to know her every intimate detail. 1998. A good year.

“Dennis! Good, you’re here,” Charlie shouts. “Listen, man, we got a major rat problem brewing.”

He’s panting and covered head-to-toe in dirt, sweat and – from the smell of it – shit, which knowing Charlie, could or could not be his own. Rats are the least of their problems.

“What are you telling me for? I don’t give a shit. Go take care of it,” Dennis says, his face scrunching as he eyes Charlie’s rat stick, glistening with fluids that are dangerously close to dripping all over the floor. “And don’t bring that thing up here anymore. It’s disgusting. This is a bar, for Christ’s sake.”

Charlie chucks the weapon down the stairs and slams the door behind him. Well, he followed half the instructions. That’s progress.

“No, dude, you don’t understand. I’m telling you, it’s not like a normal rat – it’s like,” Charlie thinks for half a beat, his eyes widening with manic possibility, “it’s some kind of mutant!”

Dennis can’t quite pick an appropriate emotion to display – incredulity and anger and disbelief have all somehow cancelled each other out – so he simply stares at Charlie and tries not to bite through his tongue. “A mutant rat.”

“Yeah! Dude, it’s gotta be. With wings! Nothing else could chew through brick way up high like that. So, I got a plan to-”

“I- I want you to stop and listen to yourself,” Dennis interrupts, endeavouring to channel an aura of calm even though he’s boiling inside as he tries to fathom the utter stupidity on display before him. “You’re suggesting to me that a rat has somehow – somehow! – gotten into, I don’t know, a vat of radioactive bullshit, has sprouted _wings,_ and is now taking up residence in our basement. Of all the basements in Philly, this godforsaken crime against nature has picked ours. Is that what you’re telling me right now, Charlie?”

“Yeah man, that’s exactly what I’m telling you, and we gotta catch it before it mates and has a whole bunch of mutant rat-bat babies. We’re not equipped to take care of those things, dude!”

Rat-bat babies. Oh, Christ.

“I just need a camera so I can track its movements, learn its habits,” Charlie explains, balls-deep in rambling mode now. There’s no telling how much of what substance he’s had, or if this is simply the brilliance of Charlie Kelly on full display. “Frank says he’ll pay for it. And you could set it up, I mean, you’re good with shit like that, right? Hell, man, we can probably have it stuffed and sell tickets for people to come and see it. If it don’t get bashed too bad,” Charlie chuckles, swinging an invisible rat stick for added effect.

It’s idiotic, is what it is. There’s no goddamn mutant bat-rat or whatever the fuck it is Charlie hopes to catch. Of course there’s fucking not. But sometimes it’s easier to just let him have his dumbass schemes, especially if it’s Frank’s dime they’re spending. Besides, Dennis has never been one to say no to a hidden camera.

“Whatever. Sure,” Dennis says, waving him off and turning his attention back to the wallet. “Just don’t speak to me of this again. And take a goddamn shower.”

****

As expected, days go by without so much as a single mutant sighting, and even less time passes before Charlie gets bored of the scheme and goes off on something else entirely. The man has the attention span of a crack-addled toddler. Whatever. The camera, at the very least, was one hell of a boon.

Watching the recordings from the comfort of the back office becomes a ritual of sorts – a way to wind down and engage in a little harmless voyeurism after dealing with those imbeciles all day. Most of the footage is mind-numbing, run-of-the-mill bar bullshit that Dennis fast-forwards right past: Charlie huffing paint thinner; Mac doing laughable karate (and failing to break even the flimsiest board Charlie holds up for him); Frank wandering around in somewhat of a fugue-state, brandishing a hoagie like a weapon. Unsurprisingly, Dee never graces the basement.

Hang on, what’s this?

For a brief moment it actually appears as if Charlie is sitting down to read a book (which is hilarity in and of itself). But when he begins to palm himself through his jeans, Dennis’ attention zeroes in. What’s gotten him so worked up that he’s had to resort to self-gratification at work? It doesn’t matter, Dennis supposes, now invested to the point of needing to see this whole performance through to the end, as Charlie unzips and pulls out his dick.

For a beat, Dennis considers locking the office door. Besides, he thinks, his cock swelling within the confines of his pants, temptation can strike even the most stalwart of men. That said, those mouth-breathing morons would be fucking blessed to even witness such majesty. Fuck ’em.

Charlie doesn’t waste any time. There are no tantalising build-up strokes, no fingers caressing sensitive flesh. He goes right at it and he goes at it _hard._ Though the footage is far from high definition, it’s clear to Dennis that he’s perspiring, the sheen adorning his reddening features glistening with each frenzied pass of his hand. For the first time since this particular venture into casual voyeurism, Dennis dons a pair of headphones with the intent of cranking up the volume. After all, such a brazen spectacle warrants enticing more than one of Dennis’ senses.

He won’t lie and say he hasn’t imagined what Charlie would look and sound like in such a state. The fact of the matter is, over the years Dennis has nurtured very specific fantasies about each member of the Gang – God help him, even Frank. Goddamn intrusive thoughts. But it isn’t about wanting to fuck them or being sexually gratified by them that he’s getting off on. It’s the power. The dominance. Knowing so intimately how he could reduce each of them to their weakest points while he stands tall above them and rains down glorious humiliation. The Golden God demands tribute, even from those closest to him.

Seeing Charlie obliviously stroking himself does something to Dennis though. It’s like rewatching tapes of all the chicks he’s banged – but different somehow. Primal. He’s at the top of the food chain, a lion spying its prey. Charlie thinks he’s alone, but he’s not. He’s vulnerable. An unsuspecting crow in the hands of a curious child. What would it take to crush him?  

Without another thought, Dennis unzips his pants.

Charlie is – just as Dennis imagined – loud as motherfucking shit. Each vulgar groan and feral grunt penetrates deep into Dennis’ core, and as he begins to stroke his own (magnificently sized) cock in kind, Dennis considers just how loud, and just how long he could make the little fucker scream.

What he’d really like to do is shove his dick down the dirtgrub’s throat and watch him choke on it. There wouldn’t be much screaming in that, but _fuck,_ the visuals alone – eyes glistening with tears, cheeks reddened and chin glazed with saliva – oh fuck, that really does it.

Dennis picks up the pace to match Charlie’s (a little impressed that such an undisciplined cunt could go so hard for so long), gripping the arm of the chair as he settles in for a game of sexual one-upmanship to see who can last the longest.

Every motion is another thrust down Charlie’s throat, and every moan from the recording spurs Dennis further. You’d resist, but you’d like it. Who wouldn’t want a taste of a god?

Charlie comes first; Dennis will have it no other way. It’s messy and wholly undignified, but the shouts coming from the video as Charlie reaches his climax send Dennis scrambling for something to contain his own release.

Dennis allows himself a low, guttural growl, closing his eyes and arching his neck as he comes himself, one last fleeting image of Charlie – on his knees and struggling to take in the entirety of Dennis’ hammering cock – closing out the fantasy as he unloads into a tissue.

Jesus Christ, that was good.

In his post-masturbatory stupor – used tissue in hand and his dick returning to its more-than-respectable flaccid state as annoyance, revulsion and desire cancel one another out intermittently – Dennis experiences somewhat of an epiphany. It’s ludicrous, really – the very idea that one Charlie Kelly, of all people, could inspire him to renege on a lifetime’s worth of principles, but maybe a new system is in order, after all. Perhaps now is a good time to recapture the naive thrill of beheading a small, helpless creature – repercussions be damned. And, let’s be reasonable here, a master cannot be expected to play the same tired symphony over and over until he withers into obscurity. He has to create, to bestow his brilliance upon those worthy enough to receive it. D.E.N.N.I.S. is good for the ladies, of course, but Charlie is a wildly different beast. A beast that needs to be broken. Furthermore, what Dennis desires above all else at this point, is to engage physically, violate (repeatedly), orgasm and leave.

But what the shit kind of acronym is that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	2. 1:10 AM on a Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie receives an unexpected gift.

There are few schemes that can be described as truly outstanding. Exceptional cons that stand the test of time – to be heralded as some of the greatest grifts in history. One to tell the grandkids. While the majority of scams put forth by the Gang as a whole fall hilariously flat (though not for lack of trying), Dennis is always confident that those concocted by himself and for himself are destined for nothing short of perfection.

On this occasion, he is correct.

Since the unfortunate loss of control and subsequent sexual epiphany that blossomed from spying on Charlie cracking one out in the basement, Dennis has spent nearly every waking moment perfecting his latest great plan. Subtly studying his prey. Orchestrating the rest of the Gang’s moves so that he and Charlie would end up at the bar alone on this exact night. It was all laughably simple, but then, dealing with imbeciles is often no real test for a mastermind such as himself. _Dance, you miserable puppets, dance._ One by one, Dee, Frank and Mac are dispatched to various activities guaranteed to hold even their child-sized attention spans, while Dennis makes a show of having to close the bar by himself (“No, goddammit, Charlie doesn’t count,” he sputters with expertly manufactured rage), ensuring that nothing other than the goddamn apocalypse will interrupt the boys’ night in that he’s oh-so-carefully arranged. At last, the fly is left alone with the spider.

Getting Charlie good and wasted (not quite “Am I peeing?” wasted, but close enough) is no mean feat, and in actuality, is the most challenging part of the task at hand. The man has the tolerance of an alley full of gasoline-chugging hobos.

Eventually, thirteen beers, ten shots of tequila and five canned wines later (it was too good an idea not to bring back), Charlie is ripe for the picking and ready to be devoured. For his part, Dennis has allowed himself no more than a healthy buzz, taking a page from his and Dee’s cutthroat Chardee MacDennis playbook and watering down his own drinks until they’re as tame as nuns on a spring-break retreat. Gotta stay sharp, even if Charlie is about one drink from drooling all over himself and passing out on the floor. Dennis has seen enough movies to know that the villain – though that word hardly applies here; he’s more a conqueror or an explorer than anything – the villain always trips up by underestimating his opposition. One too many monologues, a second too long to linger in the mirror – he can’t get tangled up in any of that bullshit tonight. Fuck if he’s going to let Charlie turn him into some bumbling Wile E. Coyote. Work first, then reap the rewards. It won’t be long now.

“Whoa, hey, buddy, let’s hold off on that one,” Dennis chuckles while swiftly swatting Charlie’s hand as he reaches for the Cuervo. Jesus Christ, how is this man not dead? “We don’t want you browning out before you’ve had your gift now.”

Charlie, his face plastered with a dopey grin and his eyes barely open at this point, burbles out an unintelligible reply before giggling and trying again. “Gift? What’s occasion?”

“Well, it is your birthday, man.” Dennis sighs heavily and offers Charlie his most sympathetic gaze. “I guess the rest of the Gang didn’t remember. But, hey, I’d never let my best boy down now, would I?” Demonstrate value. Nurture dependence. He may be playing by a whole new system now, but it seems the old method still has its merits here after all.

“Birthday? Oh, nah, s’not. I don’t even remember when is now.”

“What do you mean it’s not?” Dennis forces another laugh, this time through gritted teeth. All his careful research. Meticulous. Flawless. And now Charlie just comes along, pulls down his pants and shits all fucking over it. What kind of savage doesn’t remember his own goddamn birthday? For Christ’s sake, the man really is some kind of animal. Goddammit.

“Yeah, man, my mom…”

Dennis doesn’t catch any of his bullshit explanation, because quite frankly, he doesn’t care. Goddamn, it’s hot under these bar lights. He’s sweating like Mac; it’s utterly disgusting. This won’t do. This is not godlike. Regain control. Push it down. The Golden God cannot be stopped by some idiot’s moronic existence.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter. Okay? Just pretend it is,” he cuts in, forcing himself to ignore the pounding in his ears and the searing heat from above. It’s fine. Whatever. If anyone is capable of pulling this out of the shitter, it’s Dennis fucking Reynolds. “You’re getting a gift, and you’re going to enjoy the shit out of it.”

“Alright, alright,” Charlie says, his voice rising and falling like a creaky seesaw, “lay ’er on me, dude.”

This is it. All his plotting so close to the glorious payoff. Groans of pleasure practically swelling in his ears as Charlie races to a roaring finish. The very anticipation has his dick straining against his jeans. “All you’ve gotta do is head right through there,” he says, gesturing towards the men’s room with an unmasked grin. “I have made you a date with the Waitress and the ol’ glory hole.”

Charlie peers at Dennis in a manner that he supposes is meant to come across as inquisitive; instead he just looks like an irate baby seal. Crushing him is going to be _so_ rewarding. “It better be the Waitress, dude, and not your sisser again,” he says.

_Again?_ Dennis pushes the jarring thought from his mind. It’s not important. “It’s her, I assure you,” he says, with a smile bordering on a grimace. “Look, if you must know, she thinks she’s meeting me in there, at exactly 1:30. So how about you give _that_ a wash,” he continues, giving Charlie’s crotch an accusatory stare, “and get in there and enjoy your goddamn gift, for fuck’s sake.”

Charlie appears to consider this for a moment – his face contorted into what Dennis can only assume is the Charlie Kelly version of quiet contemplation – before nodding once with an affirmative grunt and stumbling towards the bathroom.

****

As the unmistakable sound of an intoxicated man struggling to remove his pants fills the vicinity (it’s definitely not a first for Paddy’s, at the very least), Dennis takes a moment to compose himself in the bathroom’s grimy mirror. There’s just one microscopic loose thread that needs to be taken care of to fully embrace this fantasy – a tantalising little roleplay that Dennis has been eager to jump into for quite some time now.

He reaches into his pocket and unscrews a lipstick from its plastic confines, a deep maroon colour, aptly named ‘Harlot’, and begins to apply it with care bordering on reverence. Make it slow. Make it sensual. Enjoy every decadent moment of it. What’s crucial here is to become her. Not the Waitress – Jesus fucking Christ – not her. That would be asinine. A real woman, her gravity-defying double-J’s barely contained by her unassuming white tank top (I mean, we’re talking severe back problems in later life, but who cares, right?), her Daisy Dukes clinging to the voluptuous curve of her ass with so much determination they could be painted on. Long, slender legs which culminate in knee-length socks and dainty feet sporting a pair of patent leather Mary Janes (a woman should never be taller than a man, because therein lies a shift of power and a dynamic Dennis has very little time for, so heels are an absolute no-go), the faintest whiff of a taut midriff peeking from beneath her shirt and her long, beachy waves pushed behind her ears and cascading down her back as she elegantly applies her makeup. Become her. Feel deep inside of her. Be one with her. _Become her._

His reflection peers back at him with a sultry confidence. We’re ready.

****

On his knees and face to face with Charlie’s surprisingly girthy erection, Dennis can only marvel at the sheer magnificence of his scheme. Every single detail and every potential hiccup has been taken care of and ironed flat, and whether it’s legitimately Charlie’s birthday at this point is irrelevant. It’s almost been too easy. Dennis licks his lips in anticipation; they taste of grease, a hint of wild strawberry, and power.

_It’s time to make you scream, little man._

He wraps his fingers around Charlie’s cock and gives him a couple of gentle primer strokes _(“How do you do? I’m about to suck you dry!”),_ before running his tongue slowly along the underside of his length. The trace flavour of soap pleases Dennis; at least the little bastard listens once in a while.

He could tease this out for some time – a flick of the tongue here, a long and unhurried lick there – but quite frankly, Dennis has never seen the point of foreplay. You’re either ready to go, or, well, too bad because this is happening. Besides, Charlie doesn’t have the stamina for any of that. He’s no god – not even close. While Dennis could exercise the control necessary to make this last hours if he wanted to, he’ll be fucked if he’s going to let Charlie blow his load before he’s even gotten a good taste of the fucker.

Wasting no more time on trivial frivolity, Dennis wraps his perfectly reddened lips around Charlie’s cock and eases the entire length of him into his mouth. Oh, goddamn. There’s something about it – the weight, the heat, the sublime fullness that comes from taking in inch upon inch – if Dennis was hard before, he’s painfully so now. _No touching, not yet._

He hums around the warm, hard flesh as he gets to work and is rewarded with a deep, animal-like growl from the neighbouring stall. _“Fuuuuck,”_ Charlie groans. Dennis cannot help but smirk around his mouthful.

The fact of the matter is, nobody eats dick better than a guy. A man – especially one as oddly specific in his requirements as Dennis – knows exactly what a man wants, and the truth is that some women are just too fucking insolent to listen to simple direction, regardless of the fact that they have a mouthful of a goddamn deity. A dude, on the other hand, doesn’t need instructing – because he already knows what fantastic head should feel like.

And _this_ – goddamn – this is some of the finest head anyone has ever given. He moves up and down the shaft – not too slow, but not too fast either – pulling off every so often to dip his tongue into the slit or swirl it around the flushed pink head. He’s like a conductor directing each section of his orchestra with a virtuoso’s practised touch, and every crude slurp draws a corresponding whine from the other side. It isn’t long before Dennis can taste him, the flavour of pre-come and saliva mixing in the most lurid of cocktails.

Dennis is certain he must look utterly wrecked now, his chin slick and his lipstick no doubt smudged beyond what a proper lady would ever allow, but it only heightens the fantasy. The Madonna becomes the whore. _Don’t hold back now, naughty girl._

He pulls off with a wet pop and waits half a beat before he descends on the spit-slicked dong like a man before his last meal. And what a meal it is. Dennis relaxes his jaw to take him all the way in, and soon the tip of Charlie’s meaty cock flirts with the back of Dennis’ throat as his face is pressed inelegantly against the grimy stall wall.

“Oh, shit,” Charlie moans, straining against the barrier in a vain attempt to thrust ever harder and deeper into the hole. Dennis almost wishes he could reach through and grip him by the hips so that Charlie could really hammer his throat, but the cacophony of vulgarity emanating from Charlie is more than enough reward. Every noise from the other side of the thin wooden wall, every moan, every groan, every curse and every grunt is music to Dennis’ ears – a symphony befitting of a god. _You manufactured this tour de force, Dennis Reynolds. Take a goddamn bow._

Charlie pounds the wall in his ecstasy, the lascivious beat punctuating his cries of pleasure like a tawdry bass drum, and as his cock begins to throb and twitch, Dennis very nearly pulls back, half-intent on making the fucker squirm and beg for release. But he needs to see this through to the end, to taste the astringent sticky fruits of his conquest. This victory is his, and his alone. He’s earned it.

So, when Charlie comes with a roar bordering on a scream, Dennis swallows every single drop, knowing without a doubt that the flawless female he’s conjured up for this roleplay would do the same, a coquettish smile adorning her perfect painted lips as she does so. _Good girl._

****

As Charlie’s footsteps drunkenly shuffle their way from the bathroom, Dennis takes a seat on the bowl and massages the bulge between his legs with a sly grin. He’s aching fit to burst, and as he unzips his pants he cannot help but chuckle at the thought of Charlie waking up in the morning and struggling to recall why his junk is covered in lipstick. This whole fucking charade has been nothing short of brilliance from start to finish, but enough congratulation for now; it’s time for hard-earned gratification. Besides, he thinks, as he spits into his palm and caresses his length with long, lazy strokes, his mind needs to be crystal clear and razor sharp for writing the latest passage in his erotic memoirs.

Because this is going to be one motherfucker of an entry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	3. 10:20 PM on a Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fuck time.

**_Monday, July 17th – An Erotic Awakening._ **

_ Her name is Lauren Long and after learning the art of sweet seduction from her fellow sexually bereft students at an all-girl Catholic school, she exists for a sole purpose: the pleasure of man. Years of enforced chastity and reckless moonlight ventures into the succulent folds of her classmates’ unshaven, tender flowers have driven her towards this moment. She’s a woman now, a woman of motive and means, and she desires one thing and one thing alone: Dick, and lots of it. _

_ Her breasts, once fragile buds waiting to bloom, are ripe and aching to be plucked, fondled, squeezed by a man’s strong, unrelenting hands. Her lips, a pair of plump, silken pillows, part in eager anticipation of her next taste of throbbing, hard cock. Oh, how she could almost beg for it. To feel the rigid length of a man inside of her, making her whole, giving her purpose. But a woman such as herself would never need to resort to such debasement. No, all she need do is spread herself wide, like a rose aching for the nourishment of the morning dew, and let herself be filled.  _

_ And she does. Again and again and again, her hunger insatiable for the one thing that will never ruin her flawless figure. Lucky for her, she found the ultimate sexual god who can give her exactly what she needs, any time she needs it. And he complies, wearing her like a skin-suit, and together they journey, fulfilling the lusts of the flesh she’s been nurturing since her adolescence. Together they will bring their conquest to the highest peaks of ecstasy, and together they will break him. _

****

Beer, weed, chocolate-covered pretzels and  _ Alien vs. Predator. _ It’s such a shame Mac’s mom received that unsettling telephone call, resulting in Mac having to bail and miss this boys’ night in. Such a crying shame. No elderly lady deserves to be threatened in such a violent and horrific manner (and while Mrs. Mac hadn’t given a shit, Mrs. Kelly’s subsequent hysterical call to Charlie had resulted in Mac getting pumped to kick some mouth-breathing delinquent ass; thankfully Charlie had favoured narcotics and salted snacks), and now it’s just Dennis and Charlie, alone. Awful, awful shame.

While  _ AVP _ doesn’t stand up to the magnificence of either of its predecessors, the evening chugs along seamlessly. Weed always makes Charlie pliant and tactile – like a hairy rag doll. Taking full advantage, Dennis has ‘missed’ the bag of pretzels and grazed Charlie’s inner thigh on more than one occasion, resulting in little more than a dopey grin and a garbled apology. The night is manufactured to perfection, as always; there’s just one minute loose thread that’s irritating Dennis – the worm in the apple; the rotten cavity in a set of gleaming white teeth.

The fact that Charlie hasn’t said a single goddamn word about the previous night’s magnificent display of sexual prowess is simply the height of uncouth insolence. He’s been given a gift – certainly one befitting a man far greater than himself – and the asshole can’t even acknowledge it! What kind of ingrate gets a gift and doesn’t feel any obligation to the giver? Would it kill him to gush just a tad? To thank Dennis profusely for orchestrating the whole affair?  _ “Oh, Dennis, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had; that blow job was the greatest thing that’s happened in the entirety of my tiny, inconsequential life!”  _ Is that so goddamn hard?

It can’t be that it was bad head; Dennis dismisses that idea outright. He was there; he was privy to the animalistic groans and grunts emanating from the other side of the stall. That was goddamn great head – the god of all head, if you will – and Charlie should be on his knees right now begging for a way to repay such benevolence. 

Instead, he’s slouched on the sofa with a beer in one hand and a blunt in the other, chewing pretzels with his mouth open like a goddamn animal.

“So, Charlie,” Dennis ventures, leaning across for another beer and taking a deep inhale of Charlie’s scent as he does so. He reeks of marijuana and insignificance. “You never said how your glorious date with the Waitress went. Big night like that, I figured it would be all you wanted to talk about.”

Charlie polishes off the last third of his Coors in one gulp and reaches for another. “Oh yeah, man, I’ve been dying to talk about that all day, but with Mac around,” he rolls his eyes, “you know how he gets. He’d just wanna talk about my dick and shit, and ugh. It’s massively uncomfortable, dude.” 

Goddamn Mac. “Right, yeah. Well, he’s gone for the foreseeable, so consider this a ‘safe space’, buddy.” Dennis claps him on the shoulder and subtly leans in close, a move perfected on countless disposable women. “I wanna hear all about it.”

For a moment, Charlie does nothing but stare off into the distance, as though he’s watching the filthy memory replay in the lazy swirl of pot smoke, before his face contorts in an overlarge grin. “It was incredible!” he exclaims, becoming more animated (and less coherent) with each passing second. He shifts to face Dennis, too drunk or stoned or just plain  _ Charlie _ to realise how small the space between them has become. “Her mouth felt like, like sunshine and that comforting wall of sewer water – and fireworks! And she was so into it – I mean, I know she thought it was you, but that don’t matter. This was...  _ ugh. _ Dude.  _ Words. _ Don’t even have, man,” Charlie giggles. Gotta love what weed does to the man. This is far, far too easy.

“Well, I’m glad you had a good time. You know, that’s what friends are for and shit. We build each other up. We give and take,” Dennis says, punctuating the last word with a knowing smirk. 

“She even left her lipstick all over my junk,” Charlie enthuses, one dreamy sigh from going full-on teenage girl. “I might never wash it again!”

Dennis knows he shouldn’t, and the very idea of coming clean regarding yesterday’s antics would fill a lesser being with dread, but goddammit, what’s the point in being a master of your craft if nobody knows you’re responsible? Besides, even the most basic of predators knows that toying with your catch makes the meat so much sweeter.

“About that,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tube of Harlot with mischief-tinged reverence.

The amount of time it takes for Charlie to register is comedic. His brow furrows as he inspects the item in Dennis’ hand, his lips pursed in thought before he leaps from the sofa as though his ass were on fire.

“What the shit, what the f- what the  _ fuck, _ dude?” he shrieks, his eyes darting about the place like a manic metronome. It’s almost as if they’re keeping time to his internal breakdown; a symphony of panic and repressed desire.  _ We’re close now, little man; can you feel it coming? You know you want it. _

“Easy there, buddy,” Dennis chuckles, rising to his feet and taking Charlie by the shoulders. He’s not afraid of Charlie, not by a long shot. A crow can peck and flap its wings, sure, but all you need to do is apply some force and it’ll snap like a twig. Dennis tightens his grip. “You had fun, no? You  _ enjoyed _ it. You-”

“That’s not the fucking point, dude!” Charlie interjects, his voice at an octave that potentially only dogs can make sense of, and thin flecks of spittle flying from his lips. He’s trembling. It’s utterly intoxicating. 

“I think you’ll find it’s exactly the point, my guy,” Dennis says calmly. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being open to a little-” His sentence is cut short as Charlie struggles, roars, and manages to headbutt him square in the nose.  _ This little birdy has balls. _

There’s no time for Dennis to acknowledge the metallic flavour of blood filling his mouth, before Charlie breaks free and slugs him in the abdomen. Winded, Dennis staggers backward, his arms outstretched in truce. “Come on, Charlie,” he manages, but he may as well be talking to thin air. Charlie doesn’t relent, raining blow after blow upon Dennis until they’re backed up against the wall.  _ Now’s the time. Never corner a wolf. _

“We have something, you and I,” Dennis sputters, as Charlie’s hand tightens around his windpipe. His ribs are aching to fuck but the delectable heat of his growing erection is by far the outright winner here. “Don’t you wanna explore that?” he continues, daring to press himself against Charlie’s leg. “You can’t tell me you’re not a tiny bit curious.”

Charlie loosens his hold for a split second. That’s all Dennis requires. With an almighty display of his preserved strength, Dennis lunges at Charlie, forcing them midway through the room until they hit the arm of the sofa and fall onto it with a thud and an angry squeal of springs.

Face to face, eye to eye and their ragged breath in unison, Charlie breaks the silence. “Yes, okay?” he pants, his voice rough and uncharacteristically low. “I fucking enjoyed it. Are you happy?”

“Extremely,” Dennis grins.

That’s really all the encouragement needed, and Dennis pounces on the opportunity before Charlie gets any ideas about protesting anew. It’s all about spying an open window – even if it’s just a crack – and pushing right on through. It’s the very thing that separates the milquetoast mouse from the mighty hawk; the mere mortal from the resplendent god. Dennis presses his tongue into Charlie’s mouth, the bittersweet mingling of blood and booze its own delicious intoxicant, and any flimsy notions Charlie may have had about resisting will soon collapse like a cardboard tent in a rainstorm. 

He sucks at Charlie’s lower lip, teeth grazing the flushed skin, as the viscous warmth permeating Charlie’s surprisingly soft facial hair leaves Dennis unbearably hard. For an uncultured and inexperienced little dirtgrub, Charlie is better with his tongue than Dennis ever would have guessed, and on any other night, the temptation to test those skills in far more unsavoury ways might win out. But not this time. A drunken blow isn’t gonna satisfy him now any more than a salad would satisfy a lion. Only the best will do on this occasion.

Over the years, Dennis Reynolds has made the act of turning “no” into “yes” an art form at its zenith, an accomplishment nearly as gratifying as the exquisite release itself. In every sexual conquest notched, there’s a tipping of the scales that happens – a moment when the dam bursts; when the darkness snuffs out the last glimmer of light; when the unwilling becomes the all-too eager. With his thigh nestled firmly against Charlie’s crotch, Dennis can feel it. Charlie’s impressive girth feels as if it’s been carved from marble, his hips squirming ever-so-slightly to gain a bit of friction. A guttural moan delivers the final betrayal to Charlie’s unmistakable want, and Dennis knows he’s got him. It’s fuck time.

Their clothes are rapidly discarded in a haphazard flurry of zippers and belt buckles; Charlie’s junk does indeed still bear the brazen maroon hallmark of their previous encounter. Savage. Dennis moves past it.

With their bodies pressed together and writhing in harmony, Dennis touches two fingers to Charlie’s bloodstained lower lip, coaxing his way inside with an almost tender touch. Charlie complies, sucking at the digits with the vigour he normally reserves for chugging down a Coors or seven, and when Dennis removes them, he gasps at the sudden loss of contact, then groans fit to make a whore blush when Dennis applies those moistened fingers to the tight pucker of his asshole. The Golden God taketh away, but he giveth back threefold. And we’re just getting started.

Charlie whimpers softly as Dennis works his way inside; a little pressure with the knuckle followed by one finger, some gentle assplay (he learned something useful from those mobsters’ wives, after all), then two. With his free hand he grips at Charlie’s shoulder and applies the slightest downward force as their lips meet once more, and Charlie’s feral moans of pleasure reverberate deep into Dennis’ mouth and set his every nerve ending alight with the desire to reduce this man to an incoherent quivering wreck.

We’re close. We’re so fucking close. Sexual conquests come and go, and in reality, very few could legitimately be described as conquests. Women give themselves up so easily; all it takes is a few compliments, a smattering of empathy (no matter how disingenuous –  _ “Oh, you had a rough childhood too? Tough break”), _ before they part their dimpled knees and allow Dennis to take them any fucking way he pleases. He’s providing a service, if you will, giving these basic bitches a much-needed pick-me-up and an illustrious memory for their masturbatory repertoire. But Charlie? Charlie is so much more than a simple airhead who’s had one-too-many rum and cokes to boost her waning confidence because her ass truly does look fat in that dress. Charlie is the jewel in the crown; the icing on the strictly forbidden fruitcake.

With a muted whine of protest from Charlie, Dennis withdraws his fingers and spits into his palm. The glutinous amalgamation of blood and saliva provides an adequate lubricant (Dennis has been known to use far more unorthodox methods), and Dennis caresses his length and runs the tip against the delicate underside of Charlie’s balls, before reaching the sumptuous pucker of his asshole and pausing. We’re close, oh, we’re close. But there’s one more thing Dennis needs.

He wants Charlie to beg for it. Merely giving in to wanton lust isn’t enough; of course Charlie wants him – who the fuck doesn’t? It’s the natural conclusion to any significant amount of time spent in the presence of a deity. (Mac’s pathetic and unwavering devotion is Exhibit-fucking-A of that.) No, some passionate night of (let’s be honest, mind-blowing) sex that Charlie can pass off as too much beer and too little self control won’t break him. It might encourage him to lie in bed with his hand thrust down his pants, but it won’t leave him wide awake and hating himself as he wrestles with the memory of just how much he needed to be fucked by his best friend. How he compromised his entire heterosexual worldview for it. How he still fucking craves it like a junkie twitching for his next fix. And that’s exactly what Dennis needs above all else.  _ I want to mark your fucking soul, little man. _

“Tell me what you want, Charlie,” Dennis murmurs, pressing his dick against the inviting warmth of his ass. “Tell me,” he repeats, harder this time, sharper. Charlie’s tight little hole will feel fucking amazing, there’s no doubt, but not until Dennis gets his tribute. Not a second before.

It’s a risk, this game he’s playing at. Charlie could refuse to participate; he could back out entirely. But the biggest payouts always come with the possibility of losing it all. The willingness to give it all up – to act as though you need it less than the other guy – is what separates the winners from the losers. And if it all goes south, well – he makes note of Charlie’s dingy underwear balled up on the floor. If need be, they’d look spectacular stuffed in his mouth.

He applies pressure to Charlie’s asshole, careful to hold himself back but more than enough to steer him right where he wants. “Fuck, Charlie, you’re gonna have to say it.” 

_ “God, _ Dennis-”

“That’s certainly a good start,” he says. Fuck, this is gonna be great. “Say it again.”

“Dennis,” Charlie groans, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back against the cushions. 

“No, not that. Who’s your god, Charlie? You wanna come, I gotta hear it.” Oh,  _ shit, _ the anticipation. He’s so hard it fucking hurts, and the pain feels so goddamn good Dennis could explode. Just a little more.  _ Give the Golden God your offering. Please me, you fucking worm.  _ He palms at Charlie’s cock, drawing his thumb over and around the flushed pink tip – a small taste to seal the deal.

“P-please, dude,” Charlie sputters, before fixing his bloodshot eyes on Dennis and correcting himself.  _ “God, _ please. Fuck.” 

There it is: Charlie fucking Kelly transformed into a quaking and wholly unintelligible (well, more than usual) mess. No more time to waste. Dennis pushes inside with a protracted grunt, savouring the glorious heat caressing every inch of his dick like a velvet glove as he buries himself balls-deep into Charlie’s ass. God-fucking-damn. 

Charlie wails the whole way, his screeching – like an ice pick to the frontal lobe on most days – a twisted yet undeniably sublime melody swelling in Dennis’ ears. As Dennis begins to thrust, stretching Charlie wide, they gradually subside as something more pleasurable takes over. It’s like breaking in a wild stallion; eventually they get used to the bit and saddle, and you can take them wherever you want to go. Truthfully, it’s more than a little impressive; not everyone can keep up with a sexual machine firing on all cylinders, but Dennis will be fucked if he’s going to ease up on account of some novice’s weakness. You come home with Dennis Reynolds, you graduate to the big leagues; no hand-holding and hair stroking here.

He illustrates the point by grabbing fistfuls of Charlie’s hair and leveraging himself harder and faster, the smack of sweat-slicked skin on skin as sharp as a whip.

Chancing a glance back at the door, Dennis cannot help but feel spurred on in his endeavours. There’s no doubt Mac will be away for the night – pacing his mom’s threadbare carpet and performing farcical martial arts while Bonnie flaps about the place like a live butterfly nailed to a plank, and his own dear mother smokes herself into oblivion. There’s no doubt. But the prospect of him walking in on this is more than just alluring. It’s motherfucking empowering.

Dennis grasps at Charlie’s legs and angles his hips to thrust harder and deeper; Charlie’s debauched response is enough to wake the dead. He could probably make the little fucker come completely untouched, but Dennis won’t allow that. You see, there’s a phenomenon that every guy experiences once or twice in their lives; sometimes more, depending on their proclivities. It’s a moment of pure self-loathing that usually comes about while a man is seated semi-comatose on the couch, his waning erection in one hand and a semen-soaked tissue in the other, while an open jar of Vaseline sits upon the table as a lousy porno, or beach volleyball, or fucking Victoria’s Secret commercial plays on the TV.  _ “Did I really just get off to that?” _ the poor sap will question.  _ “Fuck my life.” _

Charlie is one streak of jizz away from reevaluating his entire belief system, and Dennis requires absolute control of the subsequent revelation. Perhaps one more game is in order to cement his position at the very top of the food chain.

Meeting Charlie’s blackened gaze, Dennis takes hold of his cock and teases the base with the faintest whisper of a squeeze. “You wanna come for me, Charlie?” he says, with a saccharin inflection he normally reserves for manipulating the shit out of Mac. It doesn’t matter; it’s all smoke and mirrors.

Apparently, this far gone, Charlie is ill-equipped to form a verbal response; he merely nods his head with gusto as his hands grope feverishly at Dennis’ buttocks. This simply won’t do.

“Beg me,” Dennis growls.

It takes a few seconds before Charlie complies, but when he does, the floodgates well and truly open. The ceremonious wails of  _ “please” _ and  _ “God” _ ring like church bells in Dennis’ ears – an offering wholly befitting of a deity such as himself. And, as a kind and altruistic ruler, Dennis keeps up his side of the bargain, working Charlie’s length until he comes apart beneath him, shuddering with the euphoria of his release. Dennis follows suit – his body alight with a high to rival cocaine – withdrawing his cock and adding his own sticky tribute to Charlie’s pale hairy stomach, marking his territory one final time.  _ Nothing but bad blood and feelings between us now, little man. Welcome to paradise. _

****

Heated flesh parts reluctantly from flesh, as Dennis rises from the sofa with the intent of taking a much-needed shower. He takes a moment to survey the divine chaos he’s created, and in truth, Charlie’s appearance would bring a lesser man to his knees. Every inch of his pale skin practically glows with an ethereal sheen of perspiration, while telltale red bruises bloom here and there underneath, marking the consummation of this evening of exploration. His hair is an utter delight – a fucked-out mop of sweat and ruin, and he’s fixing Dennis with a look of admiration that suggests Dennis himself hung the moon. He’s eyeing Dennis as though he’s head over heels in love – as if nothing from here on out will ever usurp this one moment of pure perfection. He’s gazing upon Dennis as if he were a motherfucking  _ god. _

“Get dressed,” Dennis says with a smirk, as he casually tosses Charlie his pants. “We’re done here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry fighting to fucking from our cold, dead hands.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

>  **evol:**  
>  the opposite of love  
>  **e** ngage physically, **v** iolate (repeatedly), **o** rgasm, and **l** eave  
> potentially how charlie would spell evil  
> [an awesomely sexy song by the awesomely sexy brmc](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mL6vN_uSAnE)


End file.
